


To You

by cowboykylux



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: And We Love Him That Way, Asphyxiation, Body Worship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Force Bond (Star Wars), Force Sex (Star Wars), Fuck Canon, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Kylo Ren is EVIL, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, Masturbation, Oral Fixation, Praise Kink, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Submissive Kylo Ren, Supreme Leader Kylo Ren
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:40:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21981436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboykylux/pseuds/cowboykylux
Summary: You want to see him, want to see his face, want to watch his pupils dilate when the praise washes over him, and he can read it in your mind that it’s coming, so he allows you to lift his armor away. What you’re met with is something that has your knees nearly weak – for there is a glimmer of gold in his eyes, a hint of fire, of orange-red energy which flickers for a moment, yellow and fierce before the brown of his irises floods into yours.He swallows hard, desperate to hear you say it, and you brush a thumb over his bottom lip, lean in to rub your noses together sickly sweet, when you say,“You did /so/ well.”
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Reader, Kylo Ren/You
Comments: 25
Kudos: 221





	To You

You’re sitting on his throne, when he returns.

It’s a flurry of motion; the doors flying open, the Knights entering in double filed lines, three and three all in sync, all in time, their heavy boots shaking the floor with all their might. None have as much might as your husband, your man, your Supreme Leader, and when he comes into the room, all the ambassadors drop like flies with respect, the hard smack of kneecaps echoing on the imported marble flooring. Their eyes are cast down, none daring to look at his masked face, none daring to raise their heads before he allows it.

The power of the dark side flows through him so strongly that it’s palpable, it’s thick in the air, crackling and snapping around him. Your breath hitches in your chest at the way you can feel it; the way it makes the hair on your arms and back of your neck stand up, the way it casts goosebumps all across your flesh, the way it makes your stomach flip. You have no Force powers of your own, have no claim to the universe other than the ring that lives on your finger, have no ability to bend time and space other than through his hand.

But his hand is your hand, and the bond you share is so strong that you may as well command the galaxy through it, may as well manipulate it to your every whim the way that he does. It is a testament to his strength, to his power, to his loyalty, that you can feel it. The dark side.

You had been in the middle of negotiations, when he returns.

In the wake of his departure to scour the farthest corners of the galaxy, rule was always left to you. Your diplomacy was a thing which Kylo envied. He had none of his own, not really. After all, why did he need any when he had you? There had been an issue with kyber crystals, locating them now that Ilum was gone, had been destroyed in the aftermath of Starkiller Base’s explosion. You had been notified of a new planet which technically was neither Resistance nor Order, that held the second largest depository of kyber crystals in the galaxy – and you wanted it.

So, moments before Kylo and his Knights of Ren had come storming home, thundering back, you had been seated atop his throne, wearing robes of the Order’s colors, deep velvet blacks and rich silk reds, surrounded by the praetorian guards who had sworn their lives to defend you, and the ambassadors of the planet which you so desperately sought to annex.

But now Kylo is home.

Now Kylo is home and is standing before you, flanked by all his Knights, all of them, each and every one of them covered in dried blood which crusts into the seams of their armor.

“Did you…?” You ask, looking into the place where you knew his eyes were, behind the visor.

You don’t want to say anything, not in the presence of all these people, all these subjects who wait with bowed heads in reverence of their Supreme Leader. They do not know of his plans, not like you do. It would not do, you think, to reveal them just yet.

Silently, one of the Knights, Ap’Lek, steps forward, his hand outstretched.

“Oh,” You breathe, when you recognize the pyramid in Ap’Lek’s hand, gaze going back and forth between Kylo’s mask and the wayfinder which he has successfully ripped from the hands of those ill-suited Vader cultists on Mustafar, “Oh my darling.”

You are overflowing with pride, and you slink off the throne, the long train of your robes slipping and trailing behind you as you step as close as possible to Kylo, as you splay your hands around his head, as you unclasp the latches of his mask. You want to see him, want to see his face, want to watch his pupils dilate when the praise washes over him, and he can read it in your mind that it’s coming, so he allows you to lift his armor away.

What you’re met with is something that has your knees nearly weak – for there is a glimmer of gold in his eyes, a hint of fire, of orange-red energy which flickers for a moment, yellow and fierce before the brown of his irises floods into yours. He swallows hard, desperate to hear you say it, and you brush a thumb over his bottom lip, lean in to rub your noses together sickly sweet, when you say,

“You did _so_ well.”

Kylo is feral, when he returns.

He is shaking, trembling, clenched and hungry. Raw power flows through him and at the praise it only flares, only sparks. You can feel the tingling already, can feel the throbbing between your legs as the muscles in his jaw work, and he knows what you are allowing, knows what you want.

By the stars he is going to give it to you.

“Leave us.” He says, snaps, orders. His voice is loud, booming, commanding.

He does not look away from you, not for even a fraction of a second, as the room clears out. Not a single soul is allowed to remain, is allowed to witness the acts of worship he will lavish upon you. Not the Knights, not the Guards, and certainly not the ambassadors.

They flee, and you let the mask drop from your fingers, let it _clang_ on the marble floor, let it loll to one side as his gloved hands snake their way around your middle. He walks you backwards, back to the throne. It floats, suspended in the air by some sort of technology you care little about. He waves his hand and with unseen powers he brings the whole throne down so it rests firm and stable on the flooring, as he nudges you to sit back on it.

He trembles, veneration evident in the way he falls to his knees before you, the way his palms smooth up over your thighs. You scrape your nails along his scalp, his hair greasy and matted and caked in blood and old sweat, and he lets out a sound that’s far too much like a moan for you to ignore.

“Drink your wine.” You tell him, allow him, and he sucks in a deep breath, chest practically heaving as he parts your legs, pushes up your robes.

There’s so much fabric, so many layers, but underneath it all your body is bare to him, as you sit on his throne. He hikes up your robes and is met with the sight of your pussy wet and glistening, hair already soaked through, thighs already covered in a sheen of your slick. His arms coil around your thighs and pull you to the edge of the throne so he has an easier time maintaining his grip.

Kylo is desperate, when he returns.

His tongue is insistent, demanding, starving, as he licks into you, the hot wet slide of his proud muscle parting the folds of your cunt with a force that has you gripping the hair at the nape of his neck, has you moaning, has your back slouching deep against the blood red cushions of the throne.

“Yes, good – you’re so good.” You sigh with pleased approval, nipples hardening quickly against your clothing, head tipping back as you slip your legs over his shoulders so he might have better purchase.

He moans into you, eyes shut tight, looking like he’s in pain. With that first taste, he is in a near-frenzy. He’s too far gone from the rush of battle, the thrill of victory, too far beyond anything other than an aching dizzying need to consume and be consumed. He eats you out with passion, shifts closer and closer on his knees as he buries his nose against your clit, has you gasping for him with each press of it.

“Oh! Oh, please, please.” You egg him on, encourage him. He could weep, he’s so filled with adoration, devotion to you. You taste divine and he could cry if he weren’t so zeroed in on chasing the flavor of your sex, your pussy the first meal he’s had in days, the first morsel of sustenance he can engulf.

His hands shake when he needs to pull away just for a moment to breathe. Even still, he remains between your legs, cheek and chin shining with your juices. He looks at you, through his dark lashes, and there you can see the flicker and flare of yellow once again, suppliant. You lick your lips, and he nods, laves his tongue slowly, with respect and care and dedication, across the crease where your thigh parts from your cunt. He mouths and sucks the skin there, breathes in deeply as he begins to whimper, his own hips twitching.

You don’t need to see the tent in his trousers to know he is achingly hard.

“Go ahead – please, for me.” You pant, and he is so grateful that he lowers his mouth to your pussy once more, sucks hard at your clit once more, hollows out his cheeks and slurps up all your slick once more, before shoving his hand down his pants.

He moans into you again, louder this time, with the Force, this time, and a full body shudder explodes through your body. It’s literally the Force, literally time and space itself wrapping around you, traveling through you from his moans as he wraps a hand around his cock.

He strokes himself furiously, makes out with your cunt, shoves his face as deep as he can, his tongue long and thick and forcing its way against your walls, teeth dragging against your folds.

“Kylo!” You yelp, he’s too rough, too eager, too good. He’s so good, and you fist his hair hard, tug at his curls with a white-knuckle grip, and he only moans louder, which makes you cry out in turn.

You come on his tongue, knees squeezing his head, and the gush of your body could drown him. He raises himself up, nearly scrambles to rub the head of his cock through your pulsing throbbing folds. He moans, whimpers and whines as he does it, as he coats himself in your come. It is sick, the squelch of his cock rubbing up and down your pussy, and he tortures himself by only pushing in far enough that the tip has disappeared inside you.

He jerks himself off like this, you clenching and clamping down around his head as you come, thighs jumping wildly. His face is wet, from sweat or tears or your own slick, you can’t tell. His teeth chatter from where he’s hidden himself in the crook of your neck, nose pressed hard against your jugular and he comes moments after. You swear you can feel the way it splashes inside you, swear the lights flicker and flare with the intensity of it.

But he’s still hard, and you’re just as hungry as he is for a proper fucking, so with some great effort, you pull and push him deeper, closer, further into you, until he gets the hint.

Kylo is filthy, when he returns.

Your robes once pristine and wrinkle-free are now smeared with blood and dirt. He smells like ozone, like earth, like soil and ash as he pushes you up up up the throne, makes room for himself as well, room enough to plow into you. The force crackles and thrums around you, and soon the entire throne, the entire unit is tipping backwards.

Your hands fly out to cling to Kylo in a mild panic, unsure and unaware of what’s happening, but he reassures you with a dizzying kiss. Like this, gravity pulls you down enough that you are reclining, and Kylo is sinking deeper and deeper into you. Like this, he can fuck you, _really_ fuck you.

Your hands cup his cheeks, smear away the dirt and death that has stuck there. He was successful, and you are so in love with him, so proud of him, that no amount of grime could deter you. His chest heaves and you know what he wants when a hand of his own closes into a fist and opens, again and again and again.

“Can I see?” He asks, his voice hoarse.

You smile warmly, chest blooming with pride, that he’s coming back enough to speak, his first orgasm having taken off some of the edge. Your hands abandon his face to obey his request as you undo the ties and clasps of your robes, as you reveal your tits to him.

He immediately latches himself to your nipple, immediately gropes and bites at your breasts. The bruises which he had once left you as a parting gift before his mission were now faded away to nothing, and the sight thrills him because it means he has opportunity to purple your flesh with new marks of worship.

“Kylo, I can’t take it anymore, please,” You beg when the sucking and biting become too much, when his hips have still not yet thrusted against you.

He has held himself still inside you this little while, and it’s driving you crazy. He lets out a breath against you, and it trembles through you, chills you, because you can feel the power in it.

“Please what?” He asks, just wanting to hear you say it, wanting to hear those words.

“Fuck me, Kylo.” You lick your lips, clenching around his cock, “Make me scream, make the whole galaxy hear me scream your name.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

Kylo is starving, when he returns.

You’re impressed with how quickly his clothes fall away, how quickly your clothes slip off your shoulders. The robes which bore his crest, his symbol, are being literally sliced into thin ribbons from the Force. They slither and slide away, all except one long strip which binds itself around your wrists, pulls them up up up so your body is taut, your tits sticking out, back arched into his embrace.

With your hands bound, he tears the gloves from his hands with those crooked teeth which you so adore, spits them across the throne room. His hands brand you when they clamp around your thighs, keeping you in place. You couldn’t move if you tried, if you wanted to, between the weight of his body and the Force pinning you down.

“Yes!” You gasp, when he slams his cock into you, hard.

The wet smack of his skin against yours has you keening, has your back arching up more and more until he has to physically push you back down. The throne is hot against your back, from all the heat your own bodies have expelled, the metal beading with condensation as your hands scrabble against it.

“(Y/N),” Your name is a prayer on his lips as he builds a rhythm, builds up a steady pace which has your nerves on fire from your finger tips to your toes, toes which curl against his back, “(Y/N) – oh stars.” He is loud, voice bouncing around the walls of the throne room.

His hands are all over you; they grip at your knees, your hips to keep you steady. They grope at your tits, the soft flesh of your stomach, your ass. They wrap and squeeze around your throat, until you’re nearly blue in the face and sobbing from the rush of pleasure that flies to your head, dizzy in a way that has you seeing stars, and you can’t tell if you’re coming or not – it’s just _that_ good.

He is spurred on by your cries, your moans, how they are loud loud loud, shouts as he shoves his cock as deep as it can possibly go. He is so strong, it is easy for him to break you, and he has to be careful but he doesn’t want to, his head filled with so much of his own pleasure that when the Force connects the two of you in the bond you share, he bares his teeth and snarls with how good it is.

He’s coming in you again from the force of it. He bites down hard on the spot where your shoulder meets your throat, bites down to prevent him from screaming. His cock is still so hard, and he wants to cry with how much he loves you, how he can feel how much he loves you.

You are stuck in a feedback loop – pleasure, hot, wet, white, blinding, heat, love, love, love, _power_ – as the Force flows between the two of you. His fingertips crackle and spark, visible purple light glimmering shimmering in the air around you, and you yank on your bindings, desperate for him to stimulate your clit with that, with the sheer raw electricity of the universe.

“Let me? Oh Force, fuck, let me, let me, (Y/N), let me – ” he begs as he plows into you, as he rails you, and you’re hiccupping out a –

“Yes, _please,_ Kylo, yes!” You nod, furious, and he’s drooling into your mouth from how drunk he is off your cunt that his hands need a second try to find your clit in the first place.

He rolls it between his fingers when he does, and the Force shoots up through you so blindingly that your eyes snap open, that you come and come and come with a sob, as you yell out his name again and again.

He commands the Force to fuck you then, to wriggle deeper and harder and hotter and stronger than his own cock could alone. He reaches the Force up so far into you that you feel like you’re choking on it, and he is in awe of the way his power makes you feel, he absorbs it right back through your bond.

“It chose us,” He’s delirious, trembling and sparking all over, crackles of the Force thrumming through his body, into yours, up through you and out of your fingertips, “Look at this, look, it chose us – look how much it loves us.”

If there had ever been a shadow of a doubt, a shadow of uncertainty about the sheer sublimity of the dark side, it is gone now. If there had ever been a call to the light, a hand outreached for a traitor of a cousin, it was snuffed out now. All there is, is power. All there is, is you.

He comes in you again, and this time, oh this time with all this pleasure, you do scream.

Kylo is flooded with power, when he returns.

He rests his head against your chest, the both of you panting panting panting, throats dry and hoarse from the shouting. Your throats are dry but your eyes sting wet, tears from pure sensation, the Force bond thriving between you. Through this somehow it burns even brighter, as if there were no ceiling for how high you both could ride this wave. You wonder, wonder what the Force will gift you, what the next step in the evolution of your love might bring. 

You’re still joined together, his cock still hard somehow. You’re exhausted, from all of that, exhausted and already blooming red purple blue bruises, muscles sore from the burn of tension. Around you, the room burns, fires combusted out of nowhere from the explosion of his orgasm.

His eyes are closed but you can still see the yellow in the memory that’s burned into your brain, the Force playing it on loop. He looks so handsome, you can’t help but shift your hips enough to draw a long groan out of him. His chocolate eyes were stunning, of course they were, but there’s something about the molten gold, the flecks of red, that unnatural display of unnatural abilities that only he can wield with such mastery…it has you breathless.

Well, everything about Kylo has you breathless.

He attempts to live inside you, and you let him, let him cling to you, robes torn and ripped to shreds in a pile around your bodies, torn from his fingers and the Force. Still he shakes, though the tremors which wrack through him now are after-shocks of coming, his cock still twitching, still pouring come into you every few moments. You’re afraid that you won’t be able to stand without it cascading down your thighs.

Kylo hears the thought and only pushes his cock deeper into you, making you suck in a breath from being so overstimulated. You don’t want him to get off of you, not yet, you don’t want him gone so soon yet, not so soon after he’s finally returned. 

Because you know realistically that he _will_ need to leave again, and soon. You know he will need to follow the wayfinder to the place where the sith reside, to the place where his power can be enhanced, to the place where any obstacle to his rise may be snuffed out.

He will be gone, you cannot stop him. You don’t want to stop him, not when he returns so successful. But before he goes, he will need his fill of you, will need to take you again and again, will need to claim you in as many ways as he can before he goes, before he is parted from you again. He will fight and he will slaughter the rebellion the same way he has slaughtered all other enemies which have come between him and his quest for power.

This you know.

But what you also know, is that he does this all for you, all for the galaxy which you rule alongside him.

And when he returns, he is all of those things; feral, desperate, filthy, starving. But he is grinning, smile spread so wide on his face as you hold him close, as you grin back at him from the thrill of it all, the thrill of your love. 

Because when he returns, it is above all else, a return to you.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi I hated TROS and fuck Bendemption so to fix all that garbage here's some evil bloodthirsty submissive Supreme Leader Kylo Ren 😌


End file.
